by Kerry Dougherty

If 1967 was the summer of love, 1985 was the summer of sweat.

For me, anyway.

I spent a lot of time on the beach 31 years ago. Over the roar of the surf I could hear Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” blaring from boomboxes, vying with Huey Lewis’ “The Power of Love.”

The soundtrack to my summer, however, was “The Heat is On” by Glenn Frey.

The heat really was on, although after reviewing historical temperature charts it seems there was nothing remarkable about 1985. It was an ordinary southeastern Virginia summer with temperatures in the 80s and low-90s.

Humidity in the gazillions.

It felt awful because it was my first full summer in what we all then called Tidewater. I’d moved here after a three-year stint in Ireland, where summertime temps seemed stuck in the 50s and 60s. Where people wilted if the mercury climbed to 75.

Not only was I unaccustomed to southeastern Virginia’s unrelenting heat, but I was living in a cramped one-bedroom garage apartment at the oceanfront.

Second floor. Low ceilings. Small windows.

No air conditioning. My landlord insisted the ancient electrical system couldn’t handle the load. Continue reading.